Cemetery in Her Mind

She has a vision of a cemetery in her mind
with his name boldly etched on the stone,
cause of death happily undefined.

Her survival, her life will sadly depend
on her keeping out of his way.
Heaven forbid, she might offend.

She has a vision of a cemetery in her mind
with his name boldly etched on the stone.
She focuses on his departure from humankind.

She’s tried to concede more than once
only to be brutalized by his rage.
She can’t continue with the pretense.

She has a vision of a cemetery in her mind
with his name boldly etched on the stone,
cause of death happily undefined.

She feels bad, wanting his death is unkind,
love and hate are very powerful emotions.
She has a vision of a cemetery in her mind,
cause of death happily undefined.


Imperfect Existence © Lyn Crain


Imperfectly Perfect

People Saw It at The Time

Mismatched Yet Perfectly Paired



Horrific Brutality

Up-close and Unsettled

Inspired by What Lies Beneath


Seduced and Betrayed

In a Galaxy, Far Far Away

We See

Belief is Potent

Every Angle

 Mismatched Yet Perfectly Paired

We Understand

The World



For Better

Or Worse





Titles and Subtitles from New York Times — December 2nd and December 3rd, 2016. There are no added words in this found poetry. I did make minute changes by separating lines to make what was said more potent.

#NYTimes #Found Poetry

What’s The Use of Regret?©Lyn Crain

It’s scary out there!

Me, myself and I

seeking a new direction.

I hear the fragile songs

of my bewildered youth.

What am I afraid of?

The Myth…

His love of the past

Will it come find me?

The borders of insanity

are so close.

I’m a mere weak girl,

shuddering and shivering

in this sea of uncertainty.

He renders me fearful

in this complex nightmare.

Where the wild things flee,

seeking answers in the book

of alleged illumination.

I need a safe place to go mad

with my monumental memories

until they compose themselves.

I’m a fragile human being,

I don’t want to wage war

but I can’t continue

fighting the hard times in paradise.

I’m tired of paying for solidarity

I can’t keep confronting

his darkness when

there are the varieties of anger.

The pages’ turn

but the story is always the same

in her storied land.

Until the cats come back

and turn the tables.

Whatever happens

They’ll blame me


what language does love speak?


It stands alone,


black and dead.

It’s my last chance

to escape  this epic fail

What’s the use of regret?

Everything in Italics was taken from the New York Times headlines and subtitles. I moved them around until I created my poem.

Change ©Lyn Crain

Racing to Unlock

 an Alien Thought Process

Beauty Fearlessly Rendered

The Architecture of Survival

Monuments to Memory

Fearlessly Rendered

 in Its Complexity


Racing to Unlock

 an Alien Thought Process

Come and Find Me

The Fragile Songs

A Book of Illuminations


Find a Direction Home


Racing to Unlock

An Alien Thought Process

From the Theater of War

 to the Halftime Show

Counting The Unarmed,

Black and Dead

Waging…  Battle


Racing to Unlock

An Alien Thought Process

Against Me, Myself and I

The Architecture of Survival

Around Town

Keep Your Eye on the Road

And on the Driver as Well


Racing to Unlock

An Alien Thought Process

Last Chance



They Can’t Kill Us All

Turning The Tables



This poem is created from article titles in The New York Times Friday 11/11/ 2016 Edition of Weekend Arts. Every line is either the full title or pieces of it to make the poem flow. I haven’t added any words except the titles.



Death of Democracy©Lyn Crain

The Mistletoe Murder


Philosophers and

 Other Lovers

in what once

was a nation


A Gambler’s Anatomy

In this

City of Dreams

Where America Begins


Judge Not

The Whistler

The Man Who Chose

To Exile

Rogue Heroes

In the

March of the Lexicon



Words on the Move

Cruel Beautiful World

It’s no longer

Seriously Sweet

When Music Was Life and Death



Escape Clause


The Wrong Side of Good bye

in a Sleeping World


The Mortifications

Bless Me

 for I Will Sin


This is another found poetry piece from the New York Times Book Review. I take the book review and cut all the different review titles and the book titles out and place them on the table. I then move them around until I have a poem. I only add minimal words to help the flow. The titles are all in italics.

#New York Times


Looped Poetry ©Lyn Crain

poetry leaped off my tongue
tongue swirled with joy
joy waiting to be shared
shared among the masses
masses reading looped poetry
poetry at its best
best poetry

Loop Poetry is a form wherein the last word in one line becomes the first word in the following line, as demonstrated in the following link:

More examples with variations can be found here:

Looking at poetry styles

I discovered a different one called Soledad. I love learning new and old styles of poetry writing, it opens one’s mind to different possibilities when writing. My humble attempt is included with Gorder’s, and Smith’s  below.

Soledad: 1. Three 8-syllable lines 2. Written in tercets or triplets alone or in sequence. 3. Rhyme Scheme: a-x-a b-x-b etc. X= unrhymed. 4. Often has internal consonance or assonance. 5. Octosyllabic lines were typical in 12th  Spanish poetry. The majority of the forms were couplets.


Spring Ahead © Judi Van Gorder

Eyes droop from lack of sleep last night,
late night write, hour hand clicks to twelve,
skip ropes forward, I wake at light.


Sacrifice Zones © 2012 Linda Varsell Smith

Exploited for profit and greed,

no rules to protect people, land

places disregarded we need.


Fuel industry and create blight.

Pollution a catastrophe.

Deplete and decay–people’s plight


Remove what stands in machine’s way

leaving dead land, mountain moonscape.

taking clean water, breathe away.


Defeated people struggle, shout

renew, recycle, choose for life,

dead, dying zones doing without.


In a Chaotic Moment ©Lyn Crain

Leaves flutter wildly in the wind

The colors burst upon my soul

 scattered thoughts defiantly pinned

Click to access Soledad.pdf

The Titles Spoke to Me #2 ©Lyn Crain

The Titles Spoke to Me #2 ©Lyn Crain

A Gambler’s Anatomy

on the Streets of Laredo

with Wolf Boys and

 Black Lives Imagined

Wild in The Streets

in Blood and Sand

the last Shelter in Place.

 In those Crazy Years

Small Great Things

Just What You Are to Me

The Nonconformist

Leaving The Faith

for a Bohemian Grove

No Place Is Home.


If He Writes It, She Will Come

Make A Mess of It

Strangers in Their Own Land

The Ghost in The Machine, Maybe Your Soul

Paint It Black

Pure Adrenaline Utter Ease

Under The Udala Trees

It Stands Alone

in Denial

I Must Be Living Twice

The Hating Game


This poem is written with titles found in the Sunday Book Review and the Weekend Arts of the New York Times.  This poetic style is called Found Poetry. The words in Italics are books and review titles. I did not alter them in any way. I simply placed them all on paper and shuffled them until I created a poem.

Who’s Smiling Now © Lyn Crain

My poem is in response to a picture in a poetry contest on, the picture is created by Marci Perrine. I’ve included the link below along with the song that inspired me.

Who’s Smiling Now

Let’s see if my plans go as proposed.
How dare those three pumpkins smirk!
He thought I wouldn’t see the gate closed.
That man is such a predictable jerk.

On the surface, I look young and immature
but behind these appealing lavender eyes
there are years of rage barely denied.
I’ve found there are advantages to being demure.

I’ll show him not to take my feelings lightly
He underestimates my ability to take action.
Hmm, I have something to remind him nightly
Ah, this spell will give me immense satisfaction.

On the surface, I look young and immature
but behind these appealing lavender eyes
there are years of rage barely denied.
I’ve found there are advantages to being demure.

My trusty wand glows with delight
ready for work on this pathetic jerk
as his screams of agony fill the night
I noted his pumpkins lost their evil smirk.

Oops, another man done gone…

Betrayed©Lyn Crain

So many brightly, illuminated
cumulus clouds surround you
on this October evening.
Mr. Moon. Or should I address

you as the Hunter, this fine evening?

I stand before you seeking answers
to those nagging adult questions.

Where do we go from here?

Please, tell me
Mr. Moon.
I need to know.

Why is it,
when I was a child
staring at you
the answers I sought
were right there?

Now that I’m an adult Mr. Moon,
the answers never appear.
Did you abandon me to those
lullaby moments?

I’m so scared.

Being an adult is not what

I thought.

Damn you. Why is it
your beguiling glow now
leaves me chilled
to the bone?


Sadly,  a new
dawning realization
echoes across
my aged soul even

my childhood friends’
glimmering magic
is gone.

Damn you Mr. Moon!

I never expected to be
betrayed by you,
my last childhood friend.